LX.
The while the infant group, from noon to night,
Passed here and there through all that cultured glade;
And sighed and wept, by turns, or sobbed outright,
As to its charms their last farewell they bade;
"Here father labored—here he slept till light
Renewed his toils," they often thought or said;
And still the springing tears suffuse their eyes,
They dash them off—but still their sorrows rise.
LXI.
They plucked the blossoms from the blushing bush,
They quaffed the waters from the purling rill,
Their bread they scattered to the gentle thrush,
That seemed half-conscious of the coming ill;
The rabbit eyed them from his covert brush,
Their crumbs supplied the little sparrow's bill;
And sadly then they sighed their last adieu,
"Our little friends, farewell! we sport no more with you."
LXII.
Meantime the parents in the cottage sate,
Their bosoms heaving and their thoughts in gloom.
"O! what," cried Mary, "is our coming fate?
And where, my husband, is our future home?
Will not dire famine on our footsteps wait,
And perils meet us whereso'er we roam?
Our harvest gone, who now can food supply?
Forced from this roof, where shall our children lie?"
LXIII.
"Trust we in God!" our pious Founder said;
"Doubt not the bounty of His providence,
Who Israel's children through the desert led,
And in all perils was there sure defence;
